Ground Zero

by Don Pendleton

  Kadir was ready to go. He had a cousin upstate who wouldn’t be pleased to see him unannounced but wasn’t the type to complain. He wondered if Sahir had gotten away and was just being cautious, and if he would go with his woman or alone? He thought of anything to distract from the feeling that Sahir, too, was gone.

  Still muttering to himself, he left the apartment without looking back. He was preoccupied with where he was headed and forgot all the security checks that had been hammered into him as he left the building.

  * * *

  BOLAN WAS CLOSE enough to identify the man as he turned the corner and walked toward the apartment building. Maybe Kadir was going to save him a lot of trouble by leading him to the other cell. Certainly, from the way he was walking with purpose, and from the fact that he had a backpack, it would seem that the soldier had caught up with him just in time.

  The Executioner fell into step at the rear of the terrorist, keeping people between them. Kadir did not look back and seemed to be walking with a determined stride, the posture of a man with purpose and destination.

  Bolan was torn. Should he try to isolate the target now and extract as much intel as possible before executing him, or should he keep the tail and see if the target led him to members of the other cell?

  He took out his smartphone to check messages. Stony Man had downloaded intel to him regarding the Somali he had seen talking to Sahir before he had taken him down. This could be the deciding factor. The man was Tunje Banjo, which was assumed to be a false name as it was more common as a Nigerian name rather than Somali. With one eye on his target as the man entered the Metro, Bolan scanned the intel about Banjo that had been forwarded to him.

  Banjo had a similar background to Sahir and Kadir in that he had been in the country as a refugee since he was a child and had grown up in Columbia Heights, where he had been known to associate with the same gangs as both men. Like them, he was a relatively recent convert to Islam, and also like them it had been a conversion fueled by a radical preacher rather than the mainstream of the religion.

  It was the section on his known associates that really rang alarms, one of them in particular. Rodney Fraser was a small-time hood who had converted while in a prison gang but had reverted to his birth name when outside and seemed to have turned his back on Islam. The fact was, no one turned his back on his gang, no matter his religious calling, unless that gang had reason for leaving the person alone. Fraser had the hallmarks of someone going into deep cover, and chances were he had fallen through the cracks.

  His address clinched it. Fraser lived in the same block as Heider. It was a good bet that he was the link between the cells—or one of them, at least. Banjo was obviously another link. These two men were joined on the associate list by three others who were known to have close links as gang members or past activity.

  Five men: the size of the other cell he was seeking. If Bolan was having a lucky day, then maybe Kadir was leading him to the others as they set out on their mission. There was one nagging doubt. If so, then why did it appear as though Kadir was headed for the airport when the mission was supposed to be in D.C.?

  Unless Bolan’s actions had precipitated a split between the two cells or a splintering so that each man was taking flight for a later, arranged meet.

  Bolan stayed one car down, people between himself and his target so that the man was unlikely to eyeball him. The soldier kept the target under observation, and what he saw was far from encouraging. Kadir shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to avoid eye contact with those around them and glaring at any who did meet his gaze. He kept trying the cell phone he was holding, cursing and looking at it irately when it elicited no response.

  This was no man headed toward a purposeful rendezvous. This was a man in flight, and he could be dangerous to innocent bystanders even before he was approached by Bolan, or by any security or law enforcement officers whose attention he would inevitably draw.

  The soldier had to find a way to draw him off before they reached the airport, to isolate him so that he could be taken down without risk to others. Logic said that if he was headed for the airport, then he wasn’t armed. Logic had nothing to do with the state of mind of this young man. They were two stations from the airport when fortune favored the soldier. While he had been seeking a strategy for isolating the terrorist, the Metrorail itself presented him with an opportunity. By fluke, the car in which Kadir sat had been gradually emptying, while the one in which Bolan stood had remained almost full. Now the last passenger other than the terrorist disembarked, while those embarking avoided the car altogether. This, then, was his chance. As the doors began to close, Bolan seized his opportunity to slip out of the full car and into the one that contained Kadir. As the doors closed and the train moved off from the station, Bolan found himself alone with his target. It was less than ideal, as they could be seen from adjacent carriages, which also carried the risk of collateral damage in the event of the terrorist being a walking bomb. In truth, though, the soldier had little real option but to act immediately.

  Kadir did not, at first, notice that there was anyone else in the train car with him. He was still muttering to himself, staring at the cell phone that still refused to respond. It was only when he felt the soldier’s eyes boring into him that he looked up. Shocked, and seeing in the face of the man slowly approaching him an expression that betrayed his professionalism, Kadir scrambled to his feet and groped at the small of his back to take hold of the SIG Sauer. He was nowhere near quick enough at the best of times, less so now when he was so anxious and distracted. Before his fingers could close on the butt and trigger guard, Bolan had drawn his Desert Eagle and trained it on the terrorist with a two-handed grip to allow maximum accuracy as the train car rocked on the rails.

  “Just bring your hands out where I can see them and I won’t blow you away,” the soldier said firmly and clearly. He was not happy about having to draw a weapon where he could be plainly seen from the other cars. One way or another, there would be a welcoming party at the next station that he would have to deal with. Kadir, meanwhile, had slowly brought his hands around, holding them palms down away from his body.

  “You’re the man who’s been taking us down? How many you got, Mr. Fed? You get my man Rich?”

  “Sahir’s dead. He went down fighting, if that means anything to you.”

  Kadir grinned. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I should blow you and this train all to hell.”

  “You won’t. You haven’t got the ordnance.”

  “You taking quite a chance, Mr. Fed. How do you know I’m not wired up?”

  Bolan’s lips quirked. “Nice bluff. You didn’t get any explosive or grenades from Younis, and he was your contact.”

  “Smart, Mr. Fed. What if I told you we had a bomb factory?”

  “Sure, you might have had training in making explosives. If you were doing that, why did you need Younis for anything other than guns? No, you weren’t going to risk being traced by a grocery bill. It’s safer and quicker to use Heider’s contacts, right? Except he’s dead. Younis is dead. They’re all dead except you. Now you’re headed toward the airport with a piece in your back. Why? You can’t get past security like that. So what’s the plan? You meeting there because it’s one of your targets?”

  It was a long shot, didn’t tally with anything else he knew, but the soldier needed to force the issue in some way as the Metrorail ate up steel to the next station. His bluff about knowing Kadir was not wired had paid off, so why not this?

  “Man, you are so stupid, Mr. Fed. You think I’d be so stupid myself as to lead you to the target area?”

  “Maybe...if you were panicking. Unless you were panicked because you’d been cut loose and were running for cover.”

  A flicker of fear crossed Kadir’s face, telling Bolan he had hit a nerve. This was a dead end as far as the second cell was concerned.

>   “That’s it, right? Banjo warned you about me because the other cell knows I’m on your tail, but they don’t want me to mess up their plans. And you’re heading for the hills like a scared kid because they won’t back you up.”

  Kadir didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to; his face told Bolan all he needed to know. Just as it told him that the terrorist had faced up to his inevitable demise and was going to go out fighting. Arms flailing, Kadir reached for the gun in the waistband at the small of his back and tried to pull it out and snap off a shot. The sudden movement against the momentum of the train made him stumble and fall as he pulled the weapon free.

  He didn’t stand a chance. Bolan’s steadied firing hand followed the arc of his fall, squeezing the trigger as the terrorist pulled the SIG Sauer free. The Desert Eagle boomed over the rattling of the train and Kadir dropped his weapon as the shot took him in the chest.

  The SIG Sauer rattled a rhythm of its own as it skittered across the carriage, far from the terrorist’s grasp. Kadir lay on his back as the soldier approached him, training the Desert Eagle on him, ready to snap off a follow-up shot if the first had not completed the task. As Bolan stood over Kadir, he saw the light extinguish in his eyes as the terrorist headed for whatever hereafter was reserved for those who failed their mission.

  Satisfied that the threat had been eliminated—and with it the last of the five-man cell taken down—Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle as the train slowed and rolled into the station. He turned toward the doors facing the approaching platform, knowing that he had accomplished half the mission, but that time was ticking down on the second half, and he was still no nearer to pinning them down.

  Time: the one thing he was short of, and the one thing that was guaranteed to be denied to him. Passengers with cell phones had done their duty as citizens, and the platform was cleared of all but armed law enforcement as the train came to a halt.

  Bolan held up his hands as the doors opened and the first commands were barked at him.

  * * *

  IT TOOK LESS than two hours for Bolan to be freed from the moment he lay facedown on the station platform. He had allowed himself to be searched and his small armory taken from him. He had a wallet but no ID of any kind. He was manhandled into an armored transport and taken to a downtown location. There was something about the attitude of the men who detained and escorted him that suggested they were holding back, were wary of him in some way.

  It wasn’t really surprising when he considered it. Some of the hardware he was carrying was extremely hard to get on the open market. The lack of ID and his bearing had an effect, even though the men detaining him should not have been swayed by that. And, in truth, the fact that he had taken down an armed man who was Somali perhaps made them wonder who the mystery man really was. It was a dangerous assumption. Still, given the tight schedule fate was putting him on, Bolan was glad of any slack.

  He sat in a room with an armed guard for most of the time, stripped to the buff and wearing a whitesuit while his clothes were taken for analysis. They wouldn’t even find a laundry mark to identify him by, though there would be enough DNA to link him to four other deaths—unless Kurtzman had had enough time to doctor various internet files. The two men assigned to guard him said nothing, refusing even to make eye contact. He had coffee, which suggested someone had an inkling whose side he was really on.

  It was a question of two things: Would this get through to Hal Brognola, and if so how long would it take? The President knew of the mission, but culpability ended way before then.

  When the major in charge of the operation entered the room and indicated to the two guards to leave them alone, Bolan knew that Brognola’s network had been keeping busy. The major was younger than Bolan, still fresh faced and with glittering hard eyes. A dedicated career man and a good soldier to rise so swiftly. Bolan was glad to be talking to a man whose demeanor told of his capabilities.

  As he sat, the major pushed another coffee across the desk and sipped his own.

  “My one vice,” he said blandly. “I didn’t know if you wanted another, but figured this waiting was frustrating you.” He waited until Bolan had thanked him and taken the fresh coffee before continuing. “I don’t know exactly who you are, but you’ve taken out five men in just under twenty-four hours without anyone catching up with you, and you have some very important friends who have their ears close to the ground. Now I don’t know, but I’m guessing you’re black ops. And it doesn’t take a leap of imagination to figure that the men you’ve eliminated were not so innocent.”

  Bolan remained silent. The major nodded.

  “Fair enough. My orders are to turn you loose. Your clothes are on their way here, and all the hardware and ordnance you were carrying is also en route. My orders don’t stretch further than letting you walk out the door, but I figure if you haven’t finished yet you might be open to some transport. I could let you get the Metro, but y’know.” He finished with a wry smile.

  “I appreciate the offer, Major. I don’t know where we are right now, but I need to be in the Columbia Heights area as soon as is humanly possible. More so, if you can run to that.”

  “I can try,” the major returned with a quirk of the brow. “It’s a—uh—busy area right now, I’d say.”

  “It is.”

  The major nodded. “Listen, soldier, as soon as your clothes and ordnance come, I’ll get you a car and a driver if you want one. Unmarked.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Major.”

  Without another word, the younger man rose and left the room, leaving Bolan alone. The soldier sat and sipped his coffee, seemingly calm but still having to quell the impatience rising within him. Things were in progress; he just had to wait.

  It seemed like hours but was only minutes before a young man entered with Bolan’s clothes over one arm and a plastic bag with his hardware grasped in the other. He nodded briefly as he dropped them on the table, then left Bolan alone to dress and secrete away his armory. Checking his smartphone, the soldier could see that it was now past noon. He would likely be chasing shadows, but at least if he was quick he may be able to pick up a trail. He could also see that Brognola had left him a brief message: Don’t make me have to do this again.

  Smiling to himself, Bolan finished his preparation and waited for the major or one of his men to return. He knew that the room had to have cameras and he had been monitored. Sure enough, within seconds the door opened and the major entered.

  “I have a car waiting for you. There is a driver if you want one. If you’re unfamiliar with D.C., he might save you some time. He can drop you off wherever you want and is under orders not to ask questions or follow.”

  Bolan nodded. “Thank you. Lead me to him.”

  Half an hour later, the driver dropped Bolan in Columbia Heights. The soldier watched him go before turning and heading toward where he hoped to pick up the trail.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bolan stood inside the vacated apartment and cursed to himself. Rodney Fraser—Mummar al-Jaheeb by any other name—lived in the same apartment building as Heider. He had been one floor away from his prey all the time. If only he had been able to make the connection between Banjo, Fraser and the other cell quicker.

  The apartment building was still crawling with CSI teams and detectives who were following up on the death of Heider. Little did they know that the perp stood in the same building as them, completely unconcerned by their presence. Well, to say that he was completely unconcerned by their presence was not entirely true. He suspected that their presence had hastened the departure of the man who had become his target just a fraction too late. The very visible signs of their activity in the building would also deter anyone coming near who may have been able to supply a lead of some kind. Bolan had little doubt that the cell led by Fraser had decamped en masse.

  Banjo had been warning the others a
nd had made himself scarce. However, it was certain that there was a community of activists in the political and religious underground of D.C. that was tight-knit, and that Fraser, Heider and company had been a part of that. The spate of deaths for which the soldier had been responsible had no doubt caused ripples, if not waves, of alarm through the underground. If fortune had favored him, there was every chance that Bolan might have been able to run into a small-time activist who knew more than perhaps he thought.

  Not now; not with D.C.’s finest trampling through the corridors of the apartment building and attracting crowds of curious onlookers on the street beyond. Anyone with something to hide would turn and walk the other way as soon as he came within a block. The soldier himself had been forced to approach the building from the rear. The front was buzzing with police activity, and as a matter of course anyone entering was questioned as to purpose. Fraser had led an admirably spartan life. The kitchen was stocked with healthy foods and nothing else. The bathroom and the living area had been clean and free of clutter. A few books, mostly on religious philosophy and motor mechanics, were on a shelf. There was a small TV. No music, no pictures on the walls. The chairs and futon were hard and functional. The table was scrubbed clean, which may have been less a desire for cleanliness than a need to scour away any evidence of chemicals used in bomb making, and under the rugs the floorboards had been varnished and polished.

  There had been only been the one hiding place in the wall in any of the rooms. Whatever had been behind the vent had not been big enough to be ordnance of any power. Bolan’s guess was that it had held cash. It was only when he reached the bedroom that he had found any kind of evidence that there had been concealed incriminating materials. Even then, he could only guess at what they might have been, as there was no physical evidence to clue him in. He doubted that it was ordnance, as the supply chain seemed to point, for both cells, toward Heider. His guess was that Fraser was the contact man with the wider web of al Qaeda cells that spread across the United States. A laptop, a cell or smartphone, perhaps all three: it didn’t need much to keep the ether open for contact. Certainly, the space he had found suggested that it was nothing much bigger than one or both of those items that had been concealed. Fraser had taken the items with him, and had no intention of returning as he hadn’t even bothered to replace the rug, floorboards and the bed when he had removed these objects for the last time.